


Hide the Rib (Apocalypse Remix)

by BlackBlood1872



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Apocalypse Road Trip, Asexual Relationship, Canon Asexual Character, Crack Treated Seriously, Episode Related, Established Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Hair Brushing, Hide the Thimble, Holding Hands, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Kiss-Averse Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Panic Attacks, Post-Apocalypse, Post-MAG 160, Set in Episodes 159-160 | Scottish Safehouse Period (The Magnus Archives), The Magnus Archives Season 5, The Mortal Garden, Timeline What Timeline, i messed it up and i don't want to fix it, it's fine, not super relevant but it's true
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-03
Updated: 2020-12-07
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:13:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27360277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlackBlood1872/pseuds/BlackBlood1872
Summary: The two them spend their first two days in the cabin cleaning, and Jon almost forgets about the bone, hidden in plain view on the mantelpiece. He spots it occasionally and it always brings a weird smile to his face, one he's been able to hide from Martin so far.It's just. It's silly and weird and a little morbid, but there's humour in that too. He doesn't think he'll ever be able toexplainthe joke, but maybe that's part of why it's so funny to him. It's inexplicable.[The expanded version of my little Rib ficlet :3 (onTumblr&AO3)]
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 21
Kudos: 178





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not sure about the chapter count, but I do know it's at least 3, probably 4, but there might be more. So it's at 4 for now, and I'll update it if that changes.
> 
> Added my first footnote! I'm just shocked it wasn't for a Good Omens fic lol

Jon isn't even sure why he brings it. He doesn't bring Jane's ashes, despite the fact that he finds this bone in the same drawer. Perhaps he just isn't as attached to the pieces of _her_ body. Perhaps he's just beyond the need for reassurance of her death.

Perhaps he's just possessive. This rib is _his_.

Whatever the reason, Jon finds himself grabbing the rib with the rest of his stuff when he flees the Institute. It ends up buried at the bottom of his duffel bag, all but forgotten until he sees it while unpacking at Daisy's safehouse. He laughs, quietly, at the sight of it.

He considers leaving it there, maybe hiding it away in another drawer but—well. This entire place is somewhere to hide. He doesn't need to hide this further.

Besides, isn't he due a little fun?

He waits until night to move it. Martin's using the bathroom and Jon takes that window of opportunity to wander into the den and place the rib, almost reverently, on the mantelpiece. There's a small collection of other things there already: a bronze analogue clock a few milliseconds slow, a rather dangerous looking knife—a dagger, really—in a serviceable leather sheath, a trio of small frames, all laying face down. He doesn't touch those, but Knows what they are before he can stop himself. Sceneries, all of them, but each is a place special to Daisy. Childhood memories, a date with Basira. She likes to keep something like that in every safehouse, something to make these places feel _real_ rather than purely practical.

Jon knows that if he wanted to Look he could see dozens of other small touches, blending in with everything else in the cabin. All with that same indulgence, turning these houses into homes.

He closes his eyes, taking a deep breath. He doesn't need to know. He isn't going to.

He slips into bed moments before Martin leaves the bathroom. They settle into the same positions they took that first night out of the Lonely, back in Martin's flat: Jon's chest against Martin's back, one arm wrapped around him. One tight squeeze before they both relax. It's easy, just as it was then. Something natural, organic. Martin threads their fingers together and presses a feather-light kiss against Jon's knuckles.[1]

It doesn't take long after that for sleep to claim them.

They spend the next day cleaning the house properly—opening windows and airing out the linens, shaking out the dust. Inventorying the pantry and planning a trip to the town they passed through on the way here, because while Daisy might be able to get by on energy bars and protein powder, they sure as hell can't.

Mind so focused on all these tasks, Jon almost forgets about his rib, hidden in plain view. He spots it occasionally and it always brings a weird smile to his face, one he's been able to hide from Martin so far. It's just. It's silly and weird and a little morbid, but there's humour in that too. He doesn't think he'll ever be able to _explain_ the joke, but maybe that's part of why it's so funny to him. It's inexplicable.

Martin doesn't notice the rib that day. He doesn't notice it the next morning, either, even after he makes tea and collapses on the couch with a sigh, almost directly across from the bone. His eyes are closed, to be fair, but it's still hours before he sees it.

They're reading that afternoon; Martin one of the poetry collections he brought with him, Jon a novel he'd found at the thrift store in town. It's not terrible, but he's read similar and there are enough grammar mistakes to leave a faint furrow in his brow. Still, he's four chapters in and he can't not finish it.

The point is, he's so engrossed in the text that the outside world fades from his focus enough that he doesn't think he'd really notice if a cow walked through the room. He isn't, however, so engrossed that he can't hear his partner's voice when he speaks up.

"Jon," Martin says, voice level and emotionless. Jon looks over, focus shifting with no conscious thought. All his senses are trained on the other man, checking, making sure that tone is nothing more than mundane. Martin stands near the archway to the kitchen, two steaming cups in his hands. Jon doesn't remember hearing him get up. He looks pointedly unimpressed at Jon's scrutiny and moves his gaze from Jon to the fireplace. "What is this?"

 _What is what_ , Jon doesn't ask. It's instinctive deflection and a blatant lie, because he knows what. He'd forgotten again, but there's really only one thing that could garner this reaction. He turns back to his book. "I'm sure I don't know what you mean," he says airily.

The subtle sound of teeth grinding together. " _Jon_."

Jon sighs and closes his book. He looks up at the ceiling, carefully not catching Martin's eye. It was a fun idea when he originally set it up, just something to lighten any _mood_ they might have brought with them, but now, faced with _explaining_ it… He feels inordinately embarrassed. "It's… my rib," he confesses reluctantly.

"And _why_ is it on the mantelpiece?"

"Where else would I put it?"

"Literally _anywhere else_."

Jon glances down and Martin looks so exasperated that he has to smile. Martin narrows his eyes. The smile widens.

The next day, the rib is gone. Jon finds it pushed to the back of the desk drawer, buried under paper scraps and other debris. Martin's out of the house at that point, one of his daily walks along the trails. Jon takes the bone out of its prison and returns it to the shelf, making sure to position it so it's clearly visible from the front door.

Martin makes a disgusted noise the moment he turns from closing the door. Jon ducks his head to hide his grin and dutifully pretends to focus on the needlework spread out before him.

The next day, Jon wakes to find it missing again. This time, hidden behind a set of true crime novels that were in the safehouse when they got here. Martin watches from the armchair as Jon searches for, and inevitably finds, the bone. His lips twitch between a frown and a smile as Jon grins, holding it aloft with a quiet "aha!"

After it's returned to the mantel, Jon presses a rare kiss against his cheek and the smile wins out.

(Maybe it's not so bad, Martin thinks, if it puts Jon in such a good mood.)

* * *

The game continues. Every day for the next two weeks, Jon wakes up to see his rib missing from the mantel and goes searching for it before continuing with his day. So far, Martin has hidden it in drawers and behind books on the shelf and once in the linen cupboard, wrapped up in a washcloth. Sometimes Jon can find it in under five minutes, and sometimes it takes him an hour. On longer searches, Martin grins at him every time Jon passes by, not even trying to suppress it, humour dancing in his eyes.

It's the liveliest he's seen his partner since they escaped from the Lonely and Jon can't help but smile back, entirely besotted, every time it happens. He'll put up with any amount of pointless searching if that's what it takes to keep Martin present and happy.

(He tries not to Know where it is immediately, but sometimes it slips through before he can stop it. This time, for instance, he already Knows it's tucked behind the canned peas. He still spends ten minutes searching through the kitchen before he "stumbles" upon it.)

Unfortunately, there's only so many places in the tiny house to hide something, and soon enough, spots repeat. Jon still makes a show of searching, but when he has an Eldritch sixth sense of Knowledge, pretending gets boring quickly. One day, about a month after this game starts, he walks into the living room to find Martin already there, not even pretending to read the book in his hands. He watches, carefully trying not to smile, as Jon looks first to the mantel (empty, as usual for the mornings) then makes a cursory sweep of the den.

Jon pauses then, a frown gracing his features for a moment before he massages his temple with a sigh. Martin rolls his eyes preemptively. He knows what that looks means by now: annoyance at an unwanted info-dump.

He's not surprised in the least when Jon looks apologetic and says, "You hid it under the sink last week. Do you want to re-hide it or should I just go get it?"

Martin sighs deeply and slumps in the armchair. "Just go get it," he groans, comically exaggerated, as if he's too aggrieved by the slight against his hiding skills to move. Jon chuckles.

The rib is returned to its pride of place on the mantelpiece, ready for the next round.

* * *

They talk about it, properly, exactly once.

"Is it okay?" Jon mumbles, face pressed against his pillow. He should be sleeping. Martin might well still be, but Jon keeps _worrying_ about it, can't stop _thinking_ long enough to drift off, and speaks before he can help himself. It's been two weeks. The push and pull of joy and worry has finally managed to reach his lungs and it hurts to breathe.

Martin sighs through his nose, rolling over to face Jon. He opens his eyes halfway, pale lashes over paler irises. He's always had blue eyes, but the Lonely washed them out even further. It's one of the few effects that never reversed itself, even after his hair regained its colour. Jon doesn't mind it, and tells him so whenever Martin spends too long staring in the mirror. Or just whenever he feels like it.

Martin blinks at him sleepily, like a cat. "Is what okay?" he asks.

"This—game, we have. With my rib," Jon whispers. He twists a section of the blanket between his fingers. "It doesn't… bother you?"

Martin hums. "It kind of did? When I first saw it sitting there. I just… remembered the Coffin and those days you were gone, again, and not being sure if you would come back." Jon winces. He… hasn't forgotten that, but it isn't an association he made with the bone, not since he first removed it. Not after it failed to be as good of an anchor as he thought it would be. Martin smiles, tucking a lock of hair behind Jon's ear, smoothing away his frown in the same motion. "But you looked so _proud_ when I saw it on the mantel again, and it stopped being _about_ that. It was suddenly nothing more than the centrepiece of a weird little game. It's really fucking morbid, don't get me wrong, but it's… fun."

Jon shifts closer, pressing his forehead against Martin's sternum. "I'm glad," he says, smile hidden by layers of fabric but audible in his voice. Martin chuckles, pressing a kiss to his hair. He wraps his arms around him and holds him close.

"Great. Do you think you can sleep now?"

"I'll give it a go," Jon mumbles, already halfway there.

* * *

There are no true rules to this strange variant of hide the thimble. They've certainly never talked about any rules. But there's an understanding that Martin will hide it the first chance he has to be sneaky in the morning. This is either as soon as he wakes up, if he's the first one to do so, or the first time he's alone in the room, if he's not. Jon will try to find it once he sees it's gone, and Martin will give him exactly zero clues, smiling as Jon roots through the cabin. When it's inevitably returned to its home above the fireplace, it will stay there for the rest of the day. Ad nauseam, for however long they care to play.

There have been days where the bone stays put, poor days when neither of them have the energy to do more than exist. Rarely, Martin will start a round and Jon will ignore it, Knowing where the rib is but unwilling to retrieve it.

Once, a hectic day means they both forget it's hidden until Martin opens the cupboard looking for something quick for supper and it tumbles out onto him, bouncing off his chest and onto the counter. His yell brings Jon running into the kitchen, where his face goes entirely blank at the sight of Martin sat on the floor, rib in hand and laughing somewhat hysterically.

The bone stays on the mantel for a good five days, this time. They're due a break.

The game resumes on a Saturday, when Jon wakes to see it set up as part of a bizarre flower arrangement on the coffee table. It's nestled in alongside various wildflowers, likely picked during Martin's morning walk. The pale yellows and oranges do nothing to hide the paleness of bone, likely the intention since the flowers are arranged such that the bone is the focal point. Jon stands frozen in the entryway, staring.

Martin sits on the couch, scribbling intermittently in a notebook, almost directly in front of the vase. He must know it's there. He must have been the one to make it.

Jon can't figure out _why_.

"What—?" he starts, and doesn't know how to finish the question.

Martin looks up, beaming. "Oh, you're awake. Good morning. Did you sleep well?"

Jon wanders further into the room, heading for the couch. His eyes stay fixed on the flowers-and-bone. "I did, yes," he says absently. "Good morning. What is this?"

"Hm?" Martin closes his book, trapping the pencil between its pages, and sets it on the end table. When Jon sits beside him, he puts his arm around his shoulders and draws him in to settle against his side. He looks at the arrangement like it's his first time seeing it, and Jon takes a moment to appreciate just how _good_ of a liar his partner is. "Oh, this.

"I just thought it looked a bit sad, you know, sat up there all alone. Thought it could do with some company. And I wasn't about to collect random bones from who knows where, so, flowers." He gives it an appraising look and nods. "I think it looks nice."

Jon stares at him. "Martin. I love you. But what the hell?"

"I love you too," Martin repeats, leaning in to kiss his forehead. When he pulls back he's frowning contemplatively. "Too much?"

"Too much," Jon concurs. He shuffles to the other corner of the couch so Martin can stand. He plucks the rib out of the vase and puts it back on the mantelpiece, front and centre.

"The flowers are nice though, aren't they?" he says when he sits back down. Jon leans against him again with a sigh. "They're bright."

"They're very nice," Jon agrees, and they are. Even more so now that it's a normal looking array of flowers.

The flowers become a new norm, Martin trading out the wilting blooms with new ones every few days. The day Martin comes back with a “care package” from Basira, he fills the vase with fresh thrift, bright purple above white ceramic. Jon smiles at it, brushing gentle fingertips over the petals, before he picks a statement to read.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1 This is a reference to a previous fic called [we're only echoes](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26003311). It can definitely be read as a prequel. [return to text]
> 
> I… really love this AU. It's my best post on Tumblr and the very idea of this always makes me laugh, so I wanted to make it its own fic, but I couldn't just post the 700 word ficlet _again_ so I started expanding it and then… couldn't stop. So this is getting pretty long, but these sections are done, so they're going up. Don't know when the rest will post, but that's normal for me haha


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The world ends on a Thursday.
> 
> Martin wishes he could say it surprised him but, really, it was only a matter of time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Direct continuation from the last chapter :)

The world ends on a Thursday.

Well, Martin amends, it doesn't really _end_. It changes, the world they knew before that fateful day is gone, ended in whatever way it has, but the Earth still spins. It still exists, gravitating around their star with its fellow planets and moon, even if the appearances of those have warped dramatically. He very carefully does not look outside at the eyes looking back.

The world has… apotheosised. _‘The apotheosis is upon us’_ and all that. It has shifted and reformed, Jon's voice and Jonah's words bringing forth a new era, a howling fearscape that so little resembles the plane of existence it was birthed from. The final stage of a metamorphosis, chrysalis breaking apart to spill forth the world's newest form.

Martin uses poetry to cope. He knows this about himself. He looks upon the roiling terror that has consumed the world outside their little cabin, their _safe house_ in the eye of the storm, and he crafts phrase and stanza. Stark realities and harsher emotions, packaged up into polished artistry. Pretty words and hollow pleasantries.

Jon doesn't cope. He holes himself up in a corner of the den, surrounded by old statements and tapes. He plays them over and over again, listening to the voices of those long dead or changed. Listening to friendly banter and absent theorizing. Spiraling, stuck in this loop of past interactions and lost chances and plans ruined before he could even make them.

Martin thinks about distracting him, about starting another round of their weird, morbid game. He could hide the rib somewhere just barely visible, a discrepancy that Jon will have to correct. But he looks into those unblinking, unfocused eyes, and he knows it wouldn't work. He could move the bone wherever he wanted, could set up another flower arrangement, could _drop it_ in _Jon's lap_ —and none of it would phase him. He wouldn't even notice.

Martin doesn't touch the rib.

He packs a bag, the day after the world changes. He isn't sure if Jon Knows about it, doesn't know if that's something he can See. It's not done with fear tainting the actions, so perhaps it's a blind spot. Perhaps the fears of those outside are louder than anything in here.

He knows they'll have to leave eventually. This house isn't right, for all it seems the safest place in the world right now. Nowhere is safe, not even the dwelling of the Archivist, and for it to appear so is a falsehood. Martin wonders which of the Powers is behind it. The Web, to keep them trapped? The Spiral, twisting reality inside the cabin to make them believe so much that can no longer be? (Make _Martin_ believe that, only him. Jon Sees what he overlooks, always.)

There is no tea. Martin finds himself making it anyway, again and again, only for the illusion to shatter as soon as Jon turns his gaze upon it.

They need to leave.

Jon realises this, weeks or hours or days after the change. Martin admits to the bags, and barely feels surprised by the fact that Jon didn't know.

Martin stands before the mantelpiece, pack heavy on his back, waiting as Jon gathers whatever extra supplies they'll need. His eyes stray to the clean curve of bone resting there.

Is it morbid to want to bring along Jon's severed rib? Martin thinks it is. That doesn't stop him from wanting, or from reaching out and picking it up, turning it over in his hands. He wants to continue their game, hide it away in one of their bags for Jon to find later on. He can almost imagine the look on Jon's face, the flash of disgust quickly smothered by amusement and disbelief. ‘You brought it along?’ he'd ask, incredulous. ‘Surprise,’ Martin might say in return, or maybe he'd explain his thoughts, say he didn't want to leave their game unfinished, to which Jon would respond by explaining how a game like hide the thimble does not _have_ an end goal, not the way they've been playing it. It would be a repeat of Martin's birthday, all those years ago, when Jon went on about emulsifiers for nearly half an hour.

The fierce ache of longing catches Martin off guard, this feeling like someone reaching inside of him and squeezing his heart. He wants this scenario to play out so badly, can almost taste it, is desperate to be in that moment he's imagined. Nothing is normal or sane about the world now, but that moment holds the potential to be a bright spot in the darkness. Hope, when a happy ending to their quest has such a miniscule chance of happening.

Martin swings his bag around and tucks the rib away before he can talk himself out of it. They have so little happiness to cling to. He will grab everything he can with both hands, even if that comfort comes from one of his boyfriend's extracted bones.

It's an anchor, he thinks. For them both this time, a tie to the world before this one, to a time when they were at peace. But one that doesn't lie about their past, that carries with it both the good and the bad; the blood and fear and choked breath, the joy and laughter and simple freedom. A talisman, maybe. Something for him to hold on to, when the current of despair threatens to sweep him away.

More poetry. Martin can't imagine it would be any good, written down. But the glacier thaw flow of the words in his mind, the ice melt that follows the rhythm of his heart, feels more true than any poem he has ever put to paper.

"Ready to go?" Jon asks, standing by Martin's side with his bag full near to bursting. His hand rests on Martin's elbow, warm and steady.

Martin lets himself surface from his contemplation, smiling down at his partner. Even now, it's an easy thing to do. Jon smiles back, the glow of his newly green eyes brightening, standing out like torchlight against the darkened sclera. Unlike before, when he was lost in his despair, gasping for breath under the torrent of horrible knowledge, there's nothing supernatural about the light in his eyes. Love, more than anything else. They feel the same as they did in the blissful weeks away from all of that, even if their colours are nearly inverted.

"Ready if you are," Martin says. Jon hums, and his hand trails down to tangle their fingers together.

They leave the safehouse as they arrived, hand in hand.

* * *

Time exists only insofar as they believe it does. It is not measured by meals or sleep, as neither are necessary under the Watchers' gaze. It is not measured by sunset or sunrise, as the sun no longer hangs in the sky. The stars and moon and planets must still exist, Martin reasons, for how else could the Earth keep rotating without their gravities to steady it? But the sight of them is gone from the endless sky, replaced by innumerable staring eyes.

All that is to say, Martin doesn't know how long they walk before deciding to make camp. Jon's eyes gaze unblinkingly onward, his mouth slowly curling into a frown the further they go. Martin isn't sure he wants to know why. He isn't sure he wants to let Jon keep him in the dark.

He knows they don't need to stop, not really. As in the safehouse, there's no hunger, no aching limbs. They could walk for days on end and be just fine.

But Martin wants to keep some semblance of order in his life, especially now.

So decided, Martin comes to a stop next to what might have once been a stone wall and a small copse of trees. He waits for Jon to notice. It doesn't take more than three steps. Jon looks back at him, confusion as bright as everything else in his green eyes.

"Martin?"

"I think we should take a break," Martin declares. He drops his pack and starts to riffle through it. He's sure he brought a sleeping bag or blanket…

"We don't—"

"I know, Jon. But I'd like to stop. Just for a while."

Jon watches him, new eyes intense and unblinking, but not anything close to the unnerving stare of the Watcher, positioned as ever at high noon. Martin lays out a wool blanket and pats the spot beside him. Jon smiles, a quick pull of muscle that disappears just as soon, as if he's determined to stay stoic but the amusement slipped through before he could stop it.

Martin grins back. Jon rolls his eyes and joins him on the blanket. He settles close, leaning his head on Martin's shoulder. For the first time since the world changed, he closes his eyes.

Like this, Jon looks the same as he always has. Tired, world worn, but with a flush under his skin that reveals him to be so very alive. His hair is getting tangled, Martin notices, and reaches into his bag for the brush he packed. Jon grumbles when his perch moves, but allows himself to be shifted into a better position. He sits cross legged with his back to Martin, elbows on his knees and curled forward. His loose hair slides over his shoulders.

Martin starts at the bottom, brushing a small section at a time. His hair is still smooth, even after everything, and Martin wonders what that's a side effect of. The lack of time causing it to stay in the condition it was in before the shift? Or perhaps it's related to the health of the Archivist, so well fed in this new world. Martin's thankful, either way, mostly because he thinks he forgot to bring any of their hair products. Maybe Jon packed some. Maybe he realised they wouldn't need them.

He moves upwards slowly, brushing with even strokes that make Jon's shoulders relax further. Martin falls into the usual meditative trance, soothed by the simple repetitive motions. Before he knows it, he's brushing from Jon's scalp to the tips, free of resistance. He blinks, and sets the brush aside to comb his fingers through it instead. He gathers it all, tucking stands behind Jon's ears.

"Tie?" Martin requests. Jon takes a moment to surface from his daze, then tugs an elastic off his wrist and passes it back. Martin twists his hair into a bun and impulsively kisses the back of his head, just above it.

Jon leans back with a sigh, settling against Martin's chest. Martin loops his arms around his waist and rests his cheek on the top of his head. They stay like that for another passage of immeasurable time, their steady breathing the only metronome available.

Eventually, Jon shifts again, resettling himself. Martin notices then that his foot is going numb and nudges Jon away before he can find a spot he really likes and finish the job. It's happened before. Jon grumbles, as usual, but lets Martin stretch. Instead of allowing them to fall into another embrace, Martin digs out the small travel pillow he stuck in Jon's backpack and scoots back so he's leaning more solidly on the stone wall. It's crumbling at the ends, unconnected to whatever it had before, but the middle is sturdy. Martin closes his eyes and settles in for a nap.

"You know you don't need sleep, right?" Jon says, somewhat amused. Martin flaps a hand at him without looking and ends up smacking his shoulder. "Ow."

"That didn't hurt. And I know, but I want to rest and even if I'm only going through the motions, it'll make me feel better."

"If you say so." But Jon quiets down, sitting beside him against the wall. He leans against Martin's side, and that warmth soothes him further.

Martin dozes for some amount of time, stuck in the weird space between tired and asleep. He thinks it's only partially because of the new apocalyptic world bending the rules of existence, and mostly because sleeping sitting up isn't very comfortable.

"Did you bring any books?" Jon asks, quieter but not low enough to miss. Martin grumbles and opens his eyes to narrow slits. His sight is fuzzy like this, blurred by his eyelashes and the small amount of light available.

"Should be some in my bag," he says, ready to close his eyes again when, at the sound of the zipper, he remembers what _else_ is in his bag. He opens his eyes a little more, watching Jon intently enough he _must_ feel it. And he does, shooting him a bemused little smile before continuing to riffle through whatever Martin packed.

And then—

—Jon freezes and his face goes blank, staring intently into the darkness of the bag. Martin sits up properly, hugging his tiny pillow against his chest and hiding his twitching smile behind it.

"Martin," Jon says, not moving.

"Yes Jon?" Martin responds innocently.

"You… brought my _rib_ ," he says, voice shading towards stunned disbelief. He opens his mouth but no more words pour out, and he sits there blinking. It must actually be a surprise, then. Martin hasn't seen him blink since before the change. He watches for a moment, trying to see if this is a negative reaction or not, and spots the steady rising eyebrows and the tiny smile he can't quite suppress.

" _Well_ ," Martin says, now hiding a grin, "I brought the rest of you with me. It seemed rude to leave that bit behind."

" _Rude_ ," Jon repeats under his breath. He huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head. "Sure. Okay. Why not?"

"We won't really be able to hide it anywhere, though," Martin muses sadly. He doesn't want to risk losing it in this hellscape, and he also doesn't want to let it out of his sight. It really is like a talisman, and he feels a spike of anxiety at the thought of being without it. He's sure Jon can feel it. But he doesn't react beyond a brief knowing glance.

"No, I suppose not," is all he says. He tucks the rib away in the inside pocket of the duffel, then digs out one of the few books Martin packed. His lips twist a bit, disappointed, but he cracks it open regardless and returns to leaning against Martin's side.

Martin resettles the pillow between his head and the wall, loops his arm around Jon's shoulders, and pretends to sleep. 


	3. did you know…?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The road trip continues. Martin learns a few new facts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this started as another attempted humourous chapter but the last segment kind of took a downer turn. hopefully it's a bit softer than the actual episode (MAG 165), but be warned that it's a bit of a heavy conversation.

Martin lets his eyes drift open, half-lidded as he stares into the middle distance. He feels a bit more rested than before, but not as much as he would have in a world where he could still sleep. He blinks and there's no grit, no ache of eyes used for too long. He sighs through his nose, barely any sound.

"You're awake?" Jon murmurs. He's still leaning against Martin's side, his head on his shoulder. The book lays closed in his lap. Martin hums and shifts to rest his cheek against his head. Jon tightens the arm he has around Martin's waist. They stay like that for a few moments, and then Jon sighs. "We should keep moving."

Martin grumbles but stands, stretching out his limbs. The two of them pack up quickly, and they're back on the path in moments.

The Panopticon looms above them, and Martin finds his gaze drawn to it the further they walk. The ground is even under his feet, and he doesn't trip even as his focus narrows to that ever-staring tower. It never seems any closer, even after hours. Days? How long have they been traveling this time?

"Fourteen hours and twenty-three minutes," Jon reports. Martin pauses, dropping his gaze to his feet. He doesn't feel any more tired than he did the first time they stopped, but obviously that doesn't mean anything now.

Martin kind of wants to stop again, find a spot to sit down and rest. But he knows it won't do anything but prolong the journey to their destination. Time holds less meaning here than it did in the previous world, and he doesn't know if the time they spend walking impacts the time it'll take to reach London. Or what used to be London, if it's changed like the rest of the world has.

Like the world is changing around them right now, barren stretches of unremarkable land shifting into empty battlefields, ground made muddy by blood and rain.

"Jon?" he asks nervously, clutching his bag's straps tighter.

"You can see that tower from anywhere on Earth," Jon murmurs, his voice smooth the way it always is when he records. "And it can see you. And if you walk towards it, eventually you'll get there. But you have to go through everything in between."

Martin stops walking. It takes Jon a few more steps to realize this, and his gaze is vague when he looks back. "You're being ominous again," Martin says, falsely bright. Jon doesn't quite blink, but his eyelids lower and rise again, and he seems to shake himself.

"Ah. Sorry, sorry." He pinches the bridge of his nose. "I didn't—what did you say?"

"I was going to ask if you knew anything about our new scenery, but I think you might have answered that already. What do you mean by “everything in between”? What—what's out here?"

Jon takes a breath and when he exhales, the distant cry of bagpipes fills the air.

"Nightmares," he says ominously. "Come on, that trench is our first."

* * *

There is fighting all around them. People running and screaming and dying, hacking apart their fellows, faceless in the mob. The air is thick with violence and it is so hard to breathe. Martin pants as he runs, sweaty hand held tightly in Jon's.

He thought they left this behind after finding that shelter, after Jon had his moment to vent the horrors of this place. But apparently not.

Jon suddenly swerves to the side and Martin stumbles, his shoulder protesting the unexpected jerk. Jon makes a wordless noise of concern, but doesn't slow until they're hidden away in the crumbling ruin of a stone building. It's small, barely larger than the Archives' breakroom, but it's a barrier against the war raging outside. Martin slumps against the wall, thankful that it's solid enough to hold him. He rubs his shoulder while Jon peeks through the holes in the walls.

"We'll be safe here," Jon reports. He settles next to Martin, leaning against him with a sigh.

"I thought you said we can't really be hurt by this stuff," Martin says. Jon shrugs, knocking their shoulders together.

"I mean, it wouldn't be permanent, but we can be _hurt_. Well, I'm not—I'm not sure if _I_ can, but you…"

"Oh, lovely," Martin huffs. He suddenly feels some belated terror regarding the battles they ran through in the hours they've been in this domain. Jon slips his hand into Martin's and squeezes, shifting to press his cheek against his shoulder. Even with the comfort, Martin feels a shiver run down his spine, and he wonders if it's some type of shock.

 _Shock blankets_ , he thinks, and is moving before he even finishes the thought. The back of his hand bumps against Jon's rib while he searches and he pauses, considering the odd impulse. And, well… he _did_ think of it like a talisman, back in the safehouse. A lucky charm; something to hold onto when the horrors of the world threaten to sweep him away. Which is what this certainly feels like.

He tugs the wool blanket around his shoulders, holding the corners together under his chin. The bone tangles with the edges of the blanket, but he doesn't let go. The feel of it against his skin is more steadying than it has any right to be.

"Do you need a distraction?" Jon asks softly. Martin nods and ends the motion by resting his head against Jon's. "Okay. Hm. How about—did you know that the acronym IKEA stands for Ingvar Kamprad Elmtaryd Agunnaryd, which is the founder's name, the farm where he grew up, and his hometown?"

Martin blinks slowly. He lifts his head so he can look into Jon's eyes, which are wide and guileless. Martin doesn't trust it for a second.

"Did you know that _before_ , or did spooky google just beam that into your head?"

Jon's expression twists at the alternate title for the Eldritch horror entity, but doesn't dispute it. "I… don't want to answer that," he says.

"Jon," Martin says, a laugh bubbling up and warping his name.

"Let's move on," Jon says in a louder voice. "Did you know that bees do actually have knees? The expression comes from the fact that they store large amounts of pollen in hairy baskets on their knees."

" _What?_ " He's full on laughing now, leaning on Jon and tilting their pile closer to the ground.

Jon is trying valiantly not to laugh with him, but he's already lost the fight against his grin, cheeks flushed. "A twenty-six sided shape is known as a rhombicuboctahedron."

"That's _not_ a real word," Martin declares.

"It is! Why would I lie about that?" he says, and continues before Martin can argue. "There are over six thousand species of grass."

"A group of lemurs is called a conspiracy," Martin counters, because he knows some interesting facts, too, actually.

They continue like this until their laughter is the only sound Martin can hear in this dreadful place. He hasn't forgotten the anxiety that led them to this point, but it's easier to push it away now, easier to bottle it up to worry about later. So he can be injured by the world around them. That isn't any different from the world they left. He just knows he has to be careful now, to be mindful of the dangers, just like he always was before.

And he still has Jon. He'll be able to manage whatever horrors the world throws their way, with Jon by his side.

With joy as their shield, they leave the Slaughter behind.

* * *

There is a village, and it is sick. The air is warm with fever, hazy to walk through. Tinned music plays through the public address system between automated advisories. Martin has heard the same three announcements multiple times during their stay here, and honestly it kind of reminds him of the time he worked in a grocery store, years and years ago. He wonders if it's the same woman voicing these. She sounds the same, that eerily flat bright tone that must be from a live person but sounds just off enough to set your teeth on edge.

 _Stranger vibe_ , he thinks, offhand, and then wonders if it is, actually? All those announcements, any automated call. Stock photos. Is that what the Strangers do in their spare time?

Well. Not anymore. But it's incredibly odd to think that such monstrous beings might have been doing such mundane things back before the world was Eldritch.

Martin spots Jon moving in his periphery and he looks up in time to see his partner lift his hand. He touches Martin's arm and Martin still can't hear him, but he knows the shape of his own name on Jon's lips.

"All done?" he asks, hushed. He doesn't want to open his mouth too much. Not in this place. The buzz of flies is so loud, and he can't see them but he can _feel_ their presence. It makes his skin crawl.

Jon gives him a tired smile and nods. They start walking without any need for discussion, Jon taking the quickest route out of town. Neither of them want to linger in this place.

The drone of flies follows them even after the village disappears from view. The phantom itch of infection lingers on his skin and Martin finds himself scratching at his arms even after Jon confirms that he's not infected.

"Hey," Jon whispers, taking one of Martin's hands in his. Martin holds on tight and tries to breathe past the fear of _taint_. "Ask me something."

"Like—what we did before? Questions you couldn't know the answer to?"

"Or anything else. What random piece of trivia are you curious about?"

"Well…" Martin pauses, thinking. He doesn't want to think about bugs right now, even if he kind of wants confirmation about a butterfly fact he heard years ago. Something else, then. "What about—animal group names? There's some weird ones, like _an unkindness of ravens_ , but what else is there?"

Jon hums thoughtfully, lips pulling into a smile. He stares up at the sky while they walk and even though the ground is uneven, he doesn't falter. "Alright, so, you probably know about _a murder of crows_ , but did you know a group of eagles is actually a convocation, not a flock? A group of cats is called a clowder, but a group of _wild cats_ is a destruction."

He goes on about this until the only sound other than his voice is the muted howl of the wind. Martin lets the smooth cadence of his words soothe away the last of his paranoia. Here, like this, he is safe.

* * *

It takes a while for the grating cacophony of circus music to fade. Neither of them speak, even after the world has quieted to the now-familiar rush of wind. Martin doesn't mind. He's still rattled from the confrontation; Jon would never hurt him, he _knows that_ , but the Watcher isn't Jon. He was far enough away that It's gaze didn't touch him, but he'd been caught in the static of the periphery, the scream of every action not!Sasha had ever taken, relayed back to her, compressed into a few deadly seconds. Martin doesn't know if the ringing in his ears is just an echo or something more tangible, something harmful.

There is something that might be righteous glee churning under his breastbone, that might be exhilarated terror. He doesn't know how he feels about what happened. He's glad she's dead, and he's excited by the prospect of further murder, and he's uneasy about that excitement. He shouldn't be. If they were still in the world before this one, he would be horrified by how seriously he's considering cold-blooded murder.

…or would he? Martin tries not to remember his time spent in Peter's employ, but he does know he entertained thoughts of… _removing_ the man from the equation. He remembers how readily he went along with the plans to get rid of Elias.

He doesn't want to think about it. _‘May our past be past’_ and all that.

The static is fading the longer they walk, and that must be a good thing. He'll file it away as a good thing, at least, and let himself exist in the not quite comfortable silence until one of them breaks it. Martin knows it won't take much longer. Jon isn't one for quiet.

They continue on for a few more steps. Jon clears his throat.

"I didn't like it," Jon says, hushed.

"That domain?" Martin clarifies. "I didn't either. If I never have to see a circus again—"

"Not that. What I _did_. How I just… _looked_ at her and she…" he trails off, and Martin notices then how shaky his hands are, how he scrapes his nails against the pads of his fingertips, as if there's something there he's trying to remove. Phantom blood from a creature that had none. "I don't like doing that," he says again, and the words have a physical weight, settling on his shoulders and making him look smaller than he actually is.

The way he says that… It sounds like he's done it before, but this is the first instance Martin has seen since they started on their journey. He opens his mouth to ask but, before he can, he thinks: _you never asked what happened to Peter_. He closes his mouth, breathing in sharply. Jon hears it and hunches in on himself a little further.

 _No. None of that_. Martin reaches out and takes Jon's hand, holding on even when he flinches. He relaxes soon after, though, slumping to lean against Martin's side. It makes walking a bit more difficult, but not impossible.

"I'm sorry," Martin whispers.

"For what?" Jon asks, still quiet, but with an undercurrent of bemusement. Then derision, audibly towards himself. " _I'm_ the one who—"

"For ever thinking it was a good thing," Martin cuts him off. "For… entertaining the thought of convincing you to do it again, to the other monsters out here. It's just—you have all this power, and the things out here are—they're just _evil_ , they're torturing and tormenting everyone, and isn't it _right_ to get rid of them? To—to try and cleanse this world?"

"That's not how it works, though," Jon mutters. He leans on Martin more heavily and now it _is_ impossible to walk, their centre of gravity tilting drastically. They come to a stop and Martin shifts, wrapping his arms around Jon's shoulders and holding him close. Jon curls his fingers around the bottom edge of Martin's jumper.

His voice is muffled by fabric, but not enough to silence his words. "It's not—there will always be fear, the way things are now. Getting rid of the avatars that feed on that fear won't—clear the air or reduce pollution or whatever metaphor you wish to use. It's just—removing the shepherd that keeps everything in line. Removing the queen from a hive. All that's left is disorder and mess, and the beings who wronged us are gone, but nothing has changed. Nothing has been _fixed_. It's… satisfying, yes, but I… I don't think it _helps_."

"It'd be nice though," Martin mutters, mostly hidden in Jon's hair. Jon huffs, tired but amused.

"I'd love to never interact with the other avatars again, believe me," he says. "But I don't… I don't think murder's the right option. I don't _want_ it to be our first option." His voice quiets further and the almost petulant repeat of "I didn't like it" is nearly lost between them. But not quite.

In the end, it doesn't take too much effort to keep the disappointment from his voice when Martin promises, "It won't be the first option." Yes, he wants the avatars and various horrible creatures gone from their lives. But he won't force Jon into doing something he doesn't want to do. It's not something he ever did before, and he's not going to start now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me, clapping my hands: Jon. doesn't. want. to murder. _The Archivist_ might be down for a murder spree, but _Jon_ would rather not, and I am going to push this agenda, kthnx. It's an important distinction.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What they need, Jon decides, is a pick-me-up. And what better way to do that than to resume their favourite game?
> 
> * * *
> 
> Jon makes a poor choice, as per usual.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is almost 1k longer than the previous 3 because I couldn't get them to stop talking, so enjoy!  
> This takes place over the course of MAG 166-168

Martin has grown used to tuning out voices he doesn't want to hear. It's not a new thing, not something he learned in this new world, ignoring the horrors that spill from his partner's lips, the screams of those suffering around them. This skill grew from childhood; cutting out the harsh words from his father, when he was around, and from his mother afterwards. Ignoring the words of his peers, the rumours and bullying. Ignoring the looks he might just be imagining from coworkers, ignoring the ever-present anxiety about how badly he fits into the place he attempts to inhabit. This skill only helped when he was distancing himself from everyone else in the world. It wasn't something he _gained_ from the Lonely, but it certainly didn't hamper it.

All that is to say, Martin isn't unfamiliar with blocking out the world around him and only absorbing the aspects he enjoys.

The world is new and different and strange, but there are parts of it that are beautiful as well. Maybe not the choking constriction of air that feels too thin, too close, even above the fathomless depths of suffering below his feet. Maybe not the ever-watching gaze of the eyes and Eye in the sky, never blinking and unmoved by the desperate cries of those below it.

But there is something comforting about the ease at which they transverse this landscape. The way the air is never too cool or too warm, the way the domains shape themselves using the bits of the world that's already there, vegetation that grows no matter what else happens. The almost artistic remains of man-made _stuff_ , crumbling walls and perfectly preserved houses sat in the middle of empty fields or cocooned in copses of trees.

In the previous world, they would be the sort of things he'd want to take carefully posed photos of. There is something soothing in the simplicity of it all. The isolation, in a way that could never hurt.

There is more if he cares to look for it. The way the light shines down from a sun they can never see, the shadows that cut satisfying shapes. The curious tint of green light that lingers over everything, obviously a product of the Ceaseless Watcher but simply there, benign in its presence.

There is even something nice to be said about this land of the Buried, the easy way the dirt crumbles between his fingers. It feels… _clean_ , in a way few recent things have. The smell of freshly turned earth and fresh rain and just, freshness. There are other words he could use, Martin supposes, but he can't think of them. None of them fit quite as well.

Martin carefully reburies the phone and lays the spade over the mound like an offering. He… isn't sure what to do with it. It still feels somewhat insensitive, to have a tool meant for clearing away dirt in a stronghold of the Buried.

Then again… wasn't there that one statement…? It was one of the first he read for the tapes, back when Jon was… _absent_ from the archives. Maybe a spade does fit into this realm. A means to dig, dig, _dig_ , falling into a trance and never realizing until there's no hope of escape. Until the narrow walls cave in around you and entomb you deep within the earth, held tight within that stifling embrace…

"Martin?" Jon asks, barely heard over the pour of rain. Martin comes back to himself with a short breath. He's holding the spade, even though he distinctly remembers abandoning it. He drops it again as if it burned him.

"I'm—I'm alright, I just—Sorry, I guess I… spaced out or something." He runs a hand through his hair, pushing soppy curls out of his face. He isn't quite soaked through, but his shoes squelch when he takes a step back, and he isn't entirely sure if it's the mud or his socks. Either way, he's desperately looking forward to getting somewhere dry and changing out of these clothes.

"Well, I'm done with my… thing," Jon says, "so we can leave whenever you—"

"Great, let's—" he says before Jon finishes, then cuts himself off. Martin takes a deep breath. "I am, _so_ ready to get out of here."

Jon lets out a little huff of a laugh. He reaches out to find Martin already there, and their hands fit together like they've always meant to be joined.

* * *

What they need, Jon decides, is a pick-me-up. And what better way to do that than to resume their favourite game?

It'll be different, this time, if only by limiting circumstances. There's no house to hide the bone in—and even if there were, neither of them would trust it to keep both them and the item safe—and Jon isn't usually the one to start a round. It was never a concrete rule, that Martin would be the one to hide the rib and Jon would be the one to search for it, but that is how the roles settled, back then. Things are different now.

So, during one of the infrequent rest sessions Martin insists on, Jon takes their bags and quietly switches the rib's location. It's in his pack now, wrapped up in one of his shirts, placed on the top of the pile for easy location. This is only the first go. It doesn't need to be elaborate just yet.

Game successfully restarted, Jon returns to Martin's side.

* * *

Martin doesn't know when the habit starts. In the Slaughter, maybe, that respite filled with pointless facts and laughter, the oddly comforting press of bone against his palm. It settles something in his chest every time he opens his bag and sees the rib peeking out from wherever it's hidden this time. He rarely takes it out, still afraid of losing it in this chaotic new world. Just seeing it is enough.

So maybe it makes sense that he would panic, the first time he digs through his bag and finds nothing. His supplies remain, all his clothes and the random paraphernalia they thought to bring, but the rib is gone. It's missing, he's _lost it_ , he can't—he doesn't know where it is and he knows he'll never find it again, not out _here_.

His breath quickens and he's always been afraid, in this world full to the brim with horrors, but never like _this_. This is _his_ terror, experienced first-hand rather than witnessed; the feeling of being submerged in ice water when before he only dipped his toes in the swash.

Martin wonders if Jon can feel this, like he can feel every ounce of fear in this new world.

(He can.

Jon wakes from something that is not sleep to the sound of Martin's frantic searching, the sound of his short breath. In the first moments, before he realizes how badly his partner is reacting, he smiles, the faintest upturn of lips, because Martin's noticed. The game has entered its third stage—usually Martin-hides, Jon-sees, Jon-finds, but now with the players reversed.

And then the first wave of fear hits, the anxiety and dismay, and the smile vanishes. His own breath catches, and he can feel his eyes hone in— _all_ of his eyes, the ones on his face and the ones that linger out of sight, the ones that exist in a plane separate from their own, so much closer now that the veil between them has been torn away. Jon cannot see what he looks like to others, but he Knows that his eyes are glowing brighter, the green sharply contrasted against the black. _All the better to see you with_ , Jon recalls, feeling sick.

"Martin, oh Christ," he whispers, and Knows his words don't reach him. Martin is slipping further into panic, and the ringing shroud of white noise in his ears is not so easily breached. Jon has to try anyway. He has to set this right. " _Martin_ , no, it was just a joke, just a—I thought I'd hide it in mine, it'd be like a new version of our game, something to—I'm so sorry, I thought it would be _fun_ , that even if we couldn't play like we used to, we could do this, I didn't mean—")

Martin can't hear much beyond the ringing in his ears. His head feels tight and too large, his eyes hurt with the heat of tears that will not fall. He's _not_ going to cry, not over _this_. It's just a bone, it was stupid to bring it in the first place, what was he _thinking_? What did he _expect_ to happen, bringing something he cares about into a world that thrives on making your life worse than you could ever imagine?

Jon is talking to him. Martin knows because the ringing has shifted pitch, melding with the normally soothing timbre of his partner's voice. He sounds just as frantic as Martin's racing heart, and it isn't soothing at all.

It seems to take all of his power to turn his head, to look away from the empty bag. Jon is watching him with wide, distressed eyes—eyes that glow so bright against the gloom, eyes that hover, ghost-like, around his head, barely there. There is a healthy flush under his skin, like there is every time Jon finds him after he's spoken aloud the fear of the domain they pass through.

 _Oh_ , Martin thinks mildly, _he's feeding on my fear_.

Martin should be upset about that. Instead, he just feels distant, panic fading out into a deep, empty void, taking with it all his energy and emotion. The world quiets around him, and Jon's voice finally breaks through.

"—used to, we could do this, I didn't mean—Martin, I'm so _sorry_ —"

"Jon," he whispers, cutting off another apology. "Can I see it?" Jon fumbles with his bag, nodding hard enough to loosen his bun, and pulls the bone out of a shirt sleeve. Martin takes it and holds it against his sternum, closing his eyes.

"I'm sorry," Jon says again. Martin just shakes his head, barely enough to see, and tilts forward to lean on Jon, face hidden in his shoulder. He feels so tired now that the adrenaline has faded.

"Don't do that again."

"I won't, I promise."

Martin doesn't know when he became this attached to the rib. Why he had such a visceral reaction to losing track of it. He does know that he never wants to feel that fear again. He has enough of it just dealing with the nightmares they travel through.

It takes some modifications to his cardigan, and Martin is incredibly grateful that he thought to pack a sewing kit, but he manages to create an inside pocket big enough to hold the bone. Jon doesn't say anything while watching the process. After, he bestows gentle kisses to each spot Martin poked with the needle. It doesn't magically cure anything, but it's sweet and domestic, and Martin feels the slightest bit of adoration bubble up past the cloud of his emotional hangover.

Martin presses a single kiss to Jon's knuckles in return. It doesn't feel like much, not _enough_ , but Jon lights up all the same. He's so cute it's ridiculous, even when he's going through with some ill-advised plan. Martin can never stay mad at him.

He might be mad, properly, when he recovers from this rollercoaster. Until then, he'll take the comfort of relaxing into Jon's embrace without complaint, their arms around each other, keeping safe that which they treasure the most.

* * *

"Should we press on?"

Martin hesitates. They've been resting, for a certain definition of the term, for however long Jon took to tell this tale about Gertrude. It's been a decent break. They _should_ continue on, exchange unneeded reprieve for the chance to run through these nightmares quicker.

But he doesn't _feel_ like they've rested, and maybe he's just being petty, but he settled here to relax. He hasn't gotten the chance yet. There's an obvious solution.

"Can we stay a while longer?" he asks. Jon looks at him, and Martin is sure it's a very human sort of searching gaze. He looks away after a moment, back out into the desolate stretch they've found themselves in this time, and breathes out slowly. It's not quite a sigh, and Martin can't read it to tell how Jon feels. The way he leans into his side is a fairly good sign, however.

"Sure, we can stay," Jon agrees.

There's no convenient wall this time around, but it's not too much worse to sleep on the ground. After he lays out the blanket and tucks his pillow under his head, it's actually quite nice. The way Jon settles against his front and relaxes in his arms is even nicer.

They doze, there, until the silence starts to chafe. Martin threads his fingers through Jon's hair, gently untangling the few knots he finds.

"Did you know?" he asks, soft enough that he isn't sure if anyone other than Jon could hear.

"Know what?" Jon asks, just as quiet.

Martin follows a strand of hair to its end, marvelling at how soft it still is. He doesn't want to ask. But he started this conversation, and he has to continue on with it. Jon won't let it drop now that it's begun.

"That you could release your assistants if you…" he trails off, throating closing around that word. He doesn't want to say it. He doesn't want to _think_ about it. Irrationally, he fears that he might speak it into being, if he isn't careful.

Jon curls closer, tucking his head under Martin's chin.

"I didn't _know_ , then. I suppose there was… a suspicion, derived from Elias' own claim, but nothing substantial enough to act on."

"I'm glad you didn't," Martin whispers. "Even if it's… terribly selfish of me. I'm glad you're still here."

"So am I," Jon breathes, hidden away in this safe space between them. As if he, too, fears jinxing it by speaking too loudly.

Martin holds him close, and tries not to imagine a world where he never had the chance.

* * *

"This is… the death guy's domain, then?"

"Oliver Banks, yes."

Martin hums, and doesn't say anything else. Jon eyes him, the corner of his lip curling upward. "Alright there, Martin?"

"Yes, yes, I'm fine. Just great."

Jon hums, an obvious mockery of Martin's previous response. They walk further into the domain, down streets covered with varying sizes of dark roots. Martin never notices when it happens, but the scenery changes at every intersection. Concrete city streets to dirt village paths, lonely farmland to beachside roads. Anywhere someone might live out their life—and end it. All with an eerie silence blanketing the routes. Anticipation made tangible.

Martin doesn't like it here.

But that's rather the point, isn't it?

"So it's him that's waiting?" Martin starts again, because he just can't let it go. He wants to. He wants to forget Banks ever existed. He wants to forget that man was ever part of their lives, however small a part it might have been. Oliver Banks who?

"Not _just_ him, but," Jon sighs, "yes."

Martin hums, and he can hear how aggressive it is even without Jon's raised eyebrows and faint smile.

"Martin?" Jon asks, amused.

"It's. Nothing."

"I really don't think it is."

Martin rebelliously stays quiet. Jon just looks more amused.

" _Look_ ," Martin says, a bit too loudly. He purposely keeps his gaze forward, unwilling to look at Jon for this. "I know you said you don't want to kill any more avatars, and I know I agreed—I still do, mostly—but it's just. I am _very tempted_ to ask you to make an exception."

Jon is silent for long enough that guilt swirls up Martin's throat like acid, and he wishes he never spoke.

"Martin…" Jon says, finally, and it's quiet and almost sad. Martin hates the sound of it.

"I know, I _know_ ," he cuts him off, holding onto his backpack straps tight enough to turn his knuckles white. "I don't—I wasn't going to say anything, because I _know_ you don't like it, and he's never—he doesn't _do_ anything but— _wait_ for people to _die_ , and that's not a punishable offense, I _know_ , I just," he pauses to breathe. "I just don't like him."

Jon absorbs all of that, and then steps closer to nudge their shoulders together. "Is there a _reason_ you don't like him? I didn't know you even knew about him."

"I mean, I—heard some things."

Jon hums encouragingly. Martin peeks at him and spots the small smile on his face. "You heard things," Jon echoes.

Martin rolls his eyes and doesn't respond. Against his will, his cheeks heat up. Jon chuckles quietly.

"I'm not going to kill him," Jon reaffirms. "I just—I don't think he's evil. If there's anyone out here who _doesn't_ deserve—my _wrath_ , or whatever, it's him."

"Not evil," Martin repeated softly, derisively. "Ruler of a hellish fear prison, but he's not _evil_."

Jon nudges his shoulder again. "That's not fair," he chides. "He didn't choose this. He just," he pauses to laugh, one short burst, "he only ever wanted to rest. To sleep without any dreams."

"…did he tell you that?"

"…yes," Jon says after a moment. "When he woke me up."

"What a hero," Martin mutters, the words slipping out before he can stop them. He winces. Jon stops walking, the sound of his steps vanishing. Martin closes his eyes and sighs.

"Martin?"

"What." Jon doesn't respond with words, but the amused noise he makes says everything. Martin loves him, but he hates that he can see through him so easily. " _What_."

"Does this have anything to do with the _things_ you heard?"

"Nope, no, it's—it's not related to anything."

" _Martin_ …"

"It's _fine_ ," he says, too quickly.

"Are you _jealous_?" And there it is. Martin crosses his arms and decides not to open his eyes. Jon edges closer, his voice cajoling as he repeats Martin's name. He rests his hands on Martin's crossed arms when he doesn't respond, and Martin can't help but smile, just a little, before he forces it into a frown that's far too close to being a pout.

Neither of them say anything for a long stretch of time.

Martin breaks first. "Alright, fine, _fine_ , I _am_ jealous, alright? If you absolutely _must_ know."

"Because he woke me up," Jon verifies. Martin opens his eyes to see him standing right in front of him, smiling with an edge of confusion.

"Because _he_ woke you up, and _I_ didn't," he clarifies, quietly, blush growing. "I was there for _weeks_ , and you never—it did _nothing_. He talks to you for—for _five minutes_ and suddenly you're back on your feet and running around like—like nothing ever happened."

"That's—it had nothing to do with _who_ was there, really," Jon says. He runs his hands along Martin's arms, wrist to elbow to shoulder and back. "I mean, it mattered _a little_ , but it—it could have been any End avatar. _That_ was the important bit. 

"I would have been so happy to be woken by you," Jon says, brushing his thumb over Martin's still heated cheek. "That's just not how these things work."

"Wish it were," Martin whispers. He sighs, leaning into Jon's hand. "And you're _sure_ you don't want to kill him?"

"I am _positive_ ," Jon says, snickering lightly. "I'm not going to kill a man just because you're jealous."

Martin whines and Jon laughs louder, so incredibly fond.

"Who knows," Jon adds, like he's sharing a joke, "maybe he'll try to stop us getting through the routes and I'll have to."

"One can hope," Martin says loftily, if only to coax out another laugh.

"But I'm not going to seek him out. At the very least, he's earned not having me hunt him down."

Martin sighs, purposely theatrical. "I suppose that's reasonable."

"Now, if you're quite done inciting me to murder?"

"It's the last time, I promise," Martin says, and it will be. He was serious when he promised that this won't be their first option. That he won't be the one to push Jon to that. He mirrors Jon's position, his thumb brushing just under his eye. "I love you."

Jon smiles so brightly at that, like he always does, as if it's the first time he's hearing it. It never gets old.

"I love you too," he says, and Martin feels it through to his marrow.

How could he ever be jealous, when he has such overwhelming proof that Jon has chosen him?


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin thinks about anchors.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The goal for this chapter: scenes for MAG 169-171  
> What actually got covered this chapter: MAG 169-170  
> I'll get there eventually :')

Their backpacks are singed. The fire is still burning behind them, uninterrupted. Every building here is either burning or a smoldering wreck, nothing but charred rubble and ash. They should have known there was a stage between those two states.

Martin pats at the edges of the cloth, palms stinging from the residual heat. The fire didn't touch them, not really, but the building that collapsed as they passed by didn't leave them unscathed. Their clothes are a little dirtier, coated in a fine layer of ash and bits of concrete. Their backpacks are a little blackened in places, pinprick holes burned through where the embers hit. Martin tugs out a jumper and grimaces at the state of it.

He presses his palm against the new pocket in his cardigan, thankful all over again that he decided to add it. He doesn't want to know what the Desolation would have done to this bone if it had gotten access to it.

He imagines cremated ash slipping through his fingers, never to be seen again, and has to fight to breathe through the panic it invokes. Jon shuffles closer to him, leaning solidly against his side.

"Hey," he whispers. "It's alright, we're okay."

"I know, I know," Martin sighs, leaning back. "That's not—I'm not too worried about that. I just thought—" He doesn't want to say. He doesn't want to jinx it. "You said it's not permanent, right? Any harm we come to? So I'm—I'm not scared of that. I—I mean, I'm—I don't want to get burned, I don't want—I hate burns, they're _awful_ and they _scar horribly_ and it—it just makes me sick, thinking of—of getting—"

Jon makes a low shushing noise, attempting to soothe. He takes Martin's hand, and it's awkward, the angles slightly off. Because it's his left hand, Martin realises. Because his right is carefully tucked away, fingers curled and hiding the palm from view. Hiding the _burn scar_ from view.

Martin makes a small, wounded noise, and immediately reaches to hold that hand, to press his palm against the smooth skin. Jon flinches but grips back strongly.

"That's not—!" Martin says sharply. He takes a deep breath. "I don't—I don't hate _your_ scar, you don't need to _hide it_. I just. I hate the idea of getting one myself, how much it would hurt and how poorly it would heal in this—in this situation. We don't exactly have an excess of medical supplies."

"It is pretty awful to—to look at, though," Jon mutters. He doesn't pull away but he does frown down at their hands. "And I certainly—I didn't get it treated anywhere, so it's not—and I still don't have much feeling—"

"I love all of you and one particularly nasty scar isn't going to change that," Martin declares fiercely. Jon swallows hard, shoulders hunching. He leans into Martin, pressing his forehead against Martin's chest.

"…alright," he mutters, choked. Martin squeezes his hand again and rubs his thumb against a patch of scar tissue on the back. The thing he hates the most about this scar is the fact that he has it at all, that anyone would ever hurt this man. Martin feels this way about all of Jon's scars, though, so this one isn't _special_.

Jon hisses through his teeth, and Martin immediately draws back, loosening the tight hold he has on his hand. But Jon is shaking his head before Martin can try to apologise, massaging his temple.

"We've lingered too long," he says ruefully. Underneath the ambiance of crackling flame and warped screaming is the faint whir of a tape recorder. Ever-present but growing louder now, eager. Predatory.

Martin reluctantly leans away, fussing with his backpack. "I guess I'll… leave you to it."

"Unless you want to listen," Jon quips. Martin winces, quickly zipping the bag shut.

"No, that's—quite alright. I'll just. Be down the street a ways, I suppose."

"Stay safe," Jon wishes, quiet. His eyes are already losing focus, watching something Martin is not meant to see. Their glow is almost lost in the flickering light of the flames. Almost, but not quite.

The Beholding is not one to be overshadowed by another power. Not anymore.

Martin walks down the middle of the street until the timbre of his partner's voice melds into the ambiance of wanton destruction.

* * *

Jon finds him sat on a curb at the end of the block, staring at a park. Or what used to be a park, before it was burned to ash. Skeleton trees dot the small space, charred and dusted with the remnants of their fellows. A few scraggly bushes border the park, in a similar state. The ground is cracked, torn to bits by the heat of the blaze.

There's a single bench remaining, perfectly in sight of this curb. The wood is broken and shattered, the metal warped, and the body sitting on it is curled up tight, carbonized and slowly crumbling away.

Jon sits beside him in silence.

"Do you know who that is?" Martin asks. He isn't sure he wants to know. He probably doesn't.

Jon glances at him, then back at the body. His eyes flash and he sighs, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees, hands clasped. "Yeah, I know. She… she loved this park. Always fought to protect it from development projects. She spent her weekends here, clearing away litter and just… relaxing under the canopy. When the fires started, she did everything she could to put them out. But she couldn't smother the flame, and she ran out of water so quickly…"

Jon keeps speaking but Martin can't hear him, the words muffled behind his palm. Jon stops eventually, crossing his eyes to stare down at the hand. Martin chuckles tiredly.

"Sorry. I just… I didn't want to know anything else."

Jon pulls Martin's hand away from his face and laces their fingers together. "That's fine," he says.

"I shouldn't have asked."

"I'm certainly not going to fault you for being curious," Jon says wryly.

Martin hums.

"I wasn't scared about getting hurt here," he says suddenly, keeping his eyes forward. It's always been easier to talk to nothing, if he pretends there's no one around to see him. That's harder now, with the constant feeling of being watched, the sure knowledge that he _is_ , both by the Watcher and by Jon. It's just… become the baseline, now. He's used to it. He still needs that original crutch when he wants to say something personal, though.

Jon makes a questioning sound and Martin squeezes his hand. "I was thinking about what sort of place this is. What it feeds on, the things it takes from you. Anything you love, anything important to you. How devastating it can be to lose what anchors you."

"Heavy thoughts," Jon murmurs. "And that… made you afraid?"

Martin doesn't feel any tug of compulsion, for which he's grateful. He's going to answer anyway, but he likes having the choice.

"I'm… I've come to the conclusion that I'm far too attached to your rib," Martin admits with a bit of a nervous laugh.

"At least someone is," Jon jokes, then bumps their shoulders together. "Sorry, I shouldn't kid. But it's interesting, isn't it, that it's become your anchor when it never worked for me."

"You never did care about your body," Martin sighs. "It always seemed like you treated it as a means to carry your mind around, nothing more."

"That's—" Jon sighs. "That's fairly accurate, yes. I should have known it wouldn't work, but I was… not thinking clearly, then."

"But you found a way out," Martin whispers.

"Thanks to you," Jon whispers back. "I'm not sure how much the actual tapes helped, but _you_ were the one to place them, and I think… I think that was a big part of what drew me back. The certainty that you were out there, that you still cared, even if I couldn't see you."

Martin's the one to nudge their shoulders this time. "Bit codependent, isn't it, to be each other's anchors?"

"It's hard to be anything else, these days."

"I suppose that's true."

Silence falls over them once more, and Martin looks back into that ruined sanctuary. The blaze has long since cooled, but the land is still settling; the cracks in the ground have spread further. The woman on the bench crumbles a little more, ash falling from her knees, her elbows. Her face. The flakes drift away on a gentle breeze. It almost looks like tears.

"Come on," Jon says, shaking their joined hands. "We should get out of here before we draw anyone's attention."

"Right," Martin huffs. He'd really rather not risk a confrontation right now.

Martin places his free hand over the secret pocket as they start to walk, and the bone is still there. Still whole and intact, still his. He clutches Jon's hand tighter, and is thankful for that too. That he has this tiny piece of Jon to carry with him, and that he has the whole of him by his side, as well.

It wouldn't be the end of the world, if he lost this insubstantial part of Jon. It would hurt, unreasonably so, but he would recover. As long as he has this man by his side, he will always be able to carry on.

* * *

Martin takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. He blinks and squints, trying to make out his surroundings.

The fog is so thick in this house. That's weird, isn't it? Fog isn't meant to be indoors. It's bad if there's smoke in a building, if it smells like this.

What does it smell like? Martin knows, but he can't quite… he can't recall the name. It isn't good. He doesn't like it. There is a memory associated with this smell, and he doesn't want to recall it. There are so many better things he could remember. He doesn't _need_ this one.

How long has he been here? _Why_ is he here? This… can't be his house. It's too large and fancy and _cold_ , and he wouldn't live in a place like this.

It's too lonely. He doesn't like being alone.

There's a tape recorder in his hand. It's already running, gently rumbling, and it looks like the track is half-way through. He must have been using it. He wonders what he said. It's so hard to remember.

Maybe he'll play back the tape later. He likes how these sound when he listens to them. It has a certain sort of… lo-fi charm.

Martin continues speaking to himself. There's no one else he could be talking to, besides this little listening machine, but it helps, he thinks, to talk out loud. His thoughts fade out into nothing if he doesn't vocalize, and that isn't good. Isn't it? He… doesn't know why it's not good, beyond the faint nagging feeling that he shouldn't lose his concentration.

It's incredibly hard not to. But he has to try. For some reason.

"I have a tape recorder," he whispers, again. He doesn't know how many times he's said it, but it doesn't feel like the first time. "It's mine, because it doesn't fit with the rest of this house. This house… it's not mine, I don't live here, but I _am_ here… for some reason… No, don't worry about that, it's not important. I'm here. I have a tape recorder. I have…" he pats his pockets, an automatic motion with no expectation, but—there's something there. Something thin and hard, in an oddly placed pocket that must have been personally added to this cardigan. A pencil, maybe, or a pen? He writes, so it makes sense that he would have something to write _with_ , even if he hasn't found anything to write _on_.

"I have a tape recorder. I have something that might be a pen or a pencil… I should see what it is. It's good to confirm things, to know the truth of things. It's… good to _know_ , in general. It's hard to keep track of things here, but I have to try. I… I'm getting distracted. There's something in my pocket. I need to find out what it is."

He sticks his hand in the pocket and finds, to his confusion, that this item is curved, hooked at the top. It's definitely not a pencil. He brings it out into the poor light of this foggy room.

"I have… a bone? Why do I have a _bone_? It's… not _mine_ , is it? It looks like… probably a rib. I don't… I don't think I know what ribs look like, but I'm _sure_ this is a rib. It's…" Martin pats his torso, feeling along the bottom of his ribcage. Along the sides of his chest. It feels whole and intact. "It's not _my_ rib, but it's… it feels like it's _mine_. I've had it… I think I've had this for a long time. Long enough to add a special pocket to my shirt."

He turns the bone over in his hands, running the pads of his fingers along the length of it. It feels so familiar, like something he's always known. This is important to him.

"It's… from _someone_ important to me?" he whispers, sounding it out. It clicks, settling into his soul like it belongs there. A memory that he only needed a catalyst to recall. "But… Why would I have someone's _rib_? That's… so weird. How would he even _lose_ a rib?" Martin pauses then. "He? How do I know…? I mean, it makes sense, doesn't it? I like men. That's… that's just a fact. Of course the most important person in my life is a man. Still doesn't explain why I have his _rib_."

There's something else here. "There's someone important to me. He's still alive, he's still—out there, somewhere. I… I don't know how I know that but I _do_. He wouldn't leave me behind. Not on purpose.

"I must have… I must have fallen behind. We were… We were both walking through this place, weren't we? And I—I got distracted? There was… something. I can't remember. I lost track of him. I… I forgot about him? How could I possibly _forget_ about—"

Martin can't remember his name. The most important person in his life, and he can't—

"Why can't I remember?" Martin croaks, sitting heavily in the chair beside him. It's nice, so much nicer than anything he might own himself. This whole house is really nice, like a showhome, and he feels terribly out of place with his grubby clothes and the—the _bone in his hand_?

"Why do I have a _bone_?" he asks, confusion breaking through like bright dawn light. He's asked this before. He's gone down this track before. "It belongs… to someone I care about. He was with me, and then he wasn't, and now I'm… now I'm alone. Where did he go? Did he… leave me behind…?"

He _wouldn't_. The surety of that hits Martin like a punch. He _knows_ , with everything that he is, that Jon would never abandon him.

" _Jon_ ," Martin breathes, and the tape recorder on the table whirs louder. "Jon, yes, I—of course I remember him. I know—I _know_ him, he—I _saw_ him, the last time I—the last time I was in a place like this. _That's_ what this is," he whispers angrily. "Of course it is, this—this fog, that's where I know it. It's— _No_. I will _not_ be distracted. I need—I need to get out of here. I need—Talking helps. If I keep talking, if I keep _remembering_ , then… then Jon can find me and we can _leave_ and I can be _done_ with all of this."

Martin is so _tired_ of being alone.

"I am Martin Blackwood, and I am _not_ lonely anymore. I have—I have _friends_ , and I'm—I am in _love_. I am in love, and I will _not_ forget that. I am—"

"Martin?" he hears, distantly, as if from an opposite shore. But he _can_ hear it, and he knows this voice; he knows it like the back of his hand. He knows it as well as the groves of this tape recorder, as well as the edges of the rib settled next to his heart.

"Jon! Jon, over here!"

There is static building around them, reaching a crescendo that is antithetical to this manor, where nothing is meant to be noticed, nothing is meant to be seen.

Martin is seen, though. Jon has seen him and he has seen Jon and they _know_ each other. This domain has no hold on him.

Not anymore.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys stop to smell some flowers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My main goal, when I started writing this expanded fic back in June, was to get to Jared and do something with Jon's other missing rib. I thought, oh this fic will be 6k words. That's fairly big!  
> Me now: _side eyes the 13k+ word count._  
>  So yeah. Jared was supposed to appear like 3 chapters ago, but I finally got to him! Enjoy a text description of the Mortal Garden.

"Are you alright?" Jon whispers. Martin holds him closer, resting his cheek against his head. They stopped to ‘rest’ the moment they passed the border of the Lonely's domain, Martin sitting against the only tree for miles, Jon all but curled up in his lap. Martin isn't sure which of them needs the contact more, right now.

Martin has never really felt _cold_ , after these encounters, but he is _drained_. Emotionally, and somewhat physically. He feels tired, in this world where sleep no longer holds him. He wants to lay down, to curl up somewhere warm, and shut out the world until it stops feeling so grey.

"I will be," he says, because he _isn't_ just yet, but the fight is still ongoing. He will get better. He just has to wait it out.

"Okay," Jon whispers, and buries his face in Martin's neck.

They will have to move on eventually. There's still so much left to see, to experience, to run from. These breaks do nothing but delay the inevitable.

But until then, Martin thinks as he hides his face in Jon's hair; until then, he'll let the world fall away in favour of this little spot they've carved out for themselves. It may not be safe for long, but it will be enough for this.

* * *

Martin sees the shift coming.

A lot of the time, the scenery will change around them dramatically; wasteland one moment, domain the next. Occasionally, they will find a road to walk along, entering a village or city as anyone would, were they in a sane world. Martin has grown used to blinking and finding himself somewhere unfamiliar.

This time, he sees the edge of the garden crest the horizon. He sees the vegetation gain definition the nearer they get, and can smell the flowers in the bright, humid heat. From a distance, it is beautiful and aromatic, and opposite everything Martin has encountered in this new era. He feels comforted by it, and then on edge, because _nothing_ under the Watcher's gaze is _pleasant_.

As they get closer, Martin realizes the truth.

Below the soothing sound of calm breezes and wind chimes, there is something worse. Small gasps of pain, distant cries of fear. Sobbing, quiet and inescapable.

The path runs between two flourishing rows of vegetation; flowers and brush and saplings. All of which is simultaneously gorgeous and grotesque, starkly beautiful in the worst of ways. The humid air is sickly sweet and heavy on Martin's tongue.

 _‘Blood, sweat, and tears’_ , he thinks, and shudders. There is so much of all three soaked into this soil.

Martin accidentally steps a bit too close to one bone-white bloom, and the ground whimpers.

"Don't touch anything," Jon advises.

"I wasn't going to," Martin assures, drawing his arms in, stepping closer to Jon. Nerves bubble up and release as a tiny laugh. "Are they still… _alive_?"

"For a certain definition," Jon says. "They're certainly still aware. But they're just the compost. The pot from which the trees grow."

In the distance, a weeping willow sways in the wind and multiple voices scream. The noise fades into muffled sobs.

Martin _really_ doesn't like it here. It's made all the worse by how wonderfully cared for the plants are. There are no weeds, and all the grass is carefully trimmed. Flowers arc towards the sky, soak in the sunlight, and grow ever taller. Even as he watches, something that might be called a rose shudders and trembles, and the petals open further. In the world before this one, he would be mesmerized by it.

Now, he just feels vaguely nauseous.

It is obvious that every plant here is just that: a _plant_. And yet he can see the individual parts that are distinctly _human_ , the joints and cartilage, flesh and hair. Bushes made from arms, bright green leaves sprouting from trembling fingers. Hands, stretched and warped and mutilated, and yet still curling to gently cradle the fruit they grow. Terrified eyes that watch them pass from somewhere inside the mass.

"I didn't think there were that many bones _in_ a human body."

"Normally there aren't," Jon tells him.

Something catches at the hem of Martin's trousers, and he looks down to see a long, spindly finger falling away from the hem, another reaching towards him. It hooks the edge for a moment before dropping like its fellow, too weak and shaky to hold on. Martin swallows hard, and takes care to step around the other, similar, grasping vines.

"It takes a skilled gardener to get them to grow like this," Jon says softly. He stares out over the fields, the acres of sprawling garden. "The curling, cascading intricacies of collagen and marrow. It takes time and devotion, and even then—"

" _Jon_ ," Martin says sharply. Jon takes a breath, ducking his head and purposely closing his eyes for a moment.

"Sorry," he whispers.

"It's—fine. It's just—how much of that was you and how much was the statement?"

Jon frowns down at the path. "Is there really a difference anymore?" he asks softly.

Martin takes his hand and leans against him. "Of course there is," Martin admonishes. "It's just—you sound like you think they're beautiful."

They walk in silence for a few more steps, gazing out over the creaking, groaning fields.

"Don't you?" Jon asks.

Martin doesn't answer. He can't, because both answers are true. This garden is magnificent and macabre, and it fascinates him as much as it disgusts him.

"Is he here?" Martin asks instead, deflecting. Jon hums.

"Up ahead."

And so he is. Martin doesn't know how he missed that massive form before, but maybe it has something to do with this domain. Maybe it's to do with Jon's sight and how he can turn a spotlight on those previously overlooked. Maybe he just didn't _want_ to see.

Jared Hopworth is a large, looming presence. He meanders through the rows of vegetation, tutting and offering gentle commentary to everyone he passes. They're too far away to hear him clearly, but Martin can hear the timbre of his voice, the deep resonance of it through the air. Every plant trembles before him, even as they lean into his tender hands.

They draw nearer. Martin can hear the tune this avatar is whistling, now; light and cheerful, disconcerting in this terrible place.

Jared crouches by one of the plants. It whimpers and seems to twist, hiding a few of its more ragged edges away from his view. Jared tsks at it, lifting one of its arm-branches with a large fingertip. "Look at this," he murmurs, shaking his head. "It's like you're _trying_ to grow ugly. That won't _do_. You're better than _that_."

The plant groans and slumps in his hold. Surrendering, it unfolds its leaves and presents them for appraisal, shaking with what might be effort, might just be fear. Jared shifts a few to check the undersides.

"Not to worry, friend; no harm done," he whispers, insomuch as he can. "Just a bit of pruning will set you right."

His other hand goes to the pocketed apron he wears, ill fitted to his frame. From it he pulls out a pair of shears, shockingly ordinary, gleaming in the sunlight. The blades close around one of the trembling limbs.

The plant-being _screams_.

Pale pink fluid drips from the wounded edge, sap or blood or some amalgamation of the two. It heals over when Jared brushes the pad of his thumb over it, the shrub hissing at the string. "Ssh," Jared shushes, all too gentle. "None of that. This should sort you right out. Soon you'll be good as new. Better, even." He continues to prune, smaller snips now. With every fallen leaf, the being sobs. Too weak for anything louder. "You just need to reach down inside and really _feel_ that fear," Jared says. "Let it guide how you grow. Until you feel it in your _bones_."

He laughs, the sound echoing in on itself, deep and rasping and causing every nearby plant to cringe. He puts away his shears and stands, brushing off his knees even as they shift and resettle into a new configuration. There's a little cart beside him, something Martin hadn't noticed before. It digs furrows into the dirt as the large man drags it behind him.

His whistling, this time, doesn't quite manage to drown out the gasps of pain when those wheels run over frail finger-vines.

Jon steps into his path. "Jared Hopworth," he announces, voice loud over the din.

Jared stops, his whistling slowly fading away. "Sure," the avatar says, "why not? If you're still clinging so hard to names."

"What else would I call you?"

Jared snorts. "You know what. The Boneturner, if you want to be nostalgic. The Gardener," he spreads his arms, indicating the whole of this domain. "Titles. 's what we are now, innit?"

"I suppose," Jon agrees quietly. Gardener, Archivist. Watcher and Watched. Yes, it all seems to revolve around titles and roles, now.

"So," Jared continues, shifting on his feet and cracking a series of joints. "I can guess why you're here. Took a bit to figure out which rib was aching, but when I did—well." He leans on the handle of his cart, the metal creaking. "Obvious, really. Why shouldn't you want it back?"

Jon lets out a breath, not solid enough to be a laugh. "It's too late for that now."

Jared shrugs. "Not really, but—whatever."

"Wait," Martin blurts, "does that mean you _could_ give it back to him?"

"Sure," Jared says, easily enough, even as Jon turns to frown slightly at Martin. "We'd have to work out a _trade_ for it, but I could return it. 'd have to be worth it, though."

There is nothing they have that either is willing to trade, not when they know the price might be a different _pound of flesh_. Literally, in this case.

Jared just shrugs when neither of them respond, his many bones creaking and reshuffling under his skin.

"And who's this?" the large man asks, tilting his head Martin's way. He smirks in the way every schoolyard bully does. "Your _boyfriend_?"

Martin's heart skips a beat, his cheeks heating. He's always thought of Jon as his partner, or more abstract phrases like ‘the most important person in his life’. Sappy nonsense filler, because to name it so clearly felt like a curse. That if he let himself grow too comfortable it would all break apart underneath him, sending him crashing back down to bleak reality. _Partner_ is safe; _boyfriend_ is a dream he doesn't dare long for.

Plus, this tone of voice has never failed to send him into stammered, incomprehensible protests. Martin feels like he's back in middle school.

Jon speaks over him, his voice firm. " _Yes_ , actually."

 _Oh_ , Martin thinks, speechless and ecstatic and on the edge of overwhelmed, which honestly feels a bit pathetic, but, you know. Can't help how you feel. He bites back a sappy smile. Now _really_ isn't the time.

Jared seems surprised by the vehement answer, rearing back. "Oh. Hm." He stares at them, letting the silence between them grow. In the fields, more of the plants groan, a faint flute song elevating the sound into something melodic.

"Rumour has it you killed a Stranger," Jared says, moving on. As if he can ignore his failed barb if they say enough to bury it. Jon winces and he laughs, deep and echoing through multiple lungs. "Also heard you haven't done it since. So? Is this where you break your fast?"

"Don't—make it sound like a _meal_."

"Isn't it?" Jared asks, and his gaze is too sharp, too knowing. Jon isn't sure if that's a trait he's always had, or if he gained it after the change, but Jon doesn't appreciate being the subject of it.

 _Hypocrite_ , he thinks, and looks away. His gaze sweeps over the unhallowed fields they stand in, the stories of all these victims murmuring in the back of his mind. Some are holdovers from the world before, gone from one nightmare to another, but many more are new. Herded like sheep into this factory farm of fear.

 _Cultivation notes_ — he starts to think, and he can taste static on his tongue. He squeezes his eyes shut, petty defiance, as if closing his physical eyes will do _anything_ to limit his sight.

"Right," Jared announces, a bit of irritation bleeding into his tone. "So if you're not here to kill me, what are you planning to do? Unless you're just here to _smell the flowers_."

"We're going to London," Jon says. "We just have to pass through everything in between, which includes your garden."

"And you think I'm just going to let you through?"

"Do you think you can stop me?" Jon asks, voice gone soft and intent, and the air grows heavy. Jared stares down at him, eyes narrowed. In the distance, windchimes clatter, too loud for this sudden tension.

And then—Jared huffs a laugh, leaning back and cracking his neck and a few other bones. "No, maybe not," he allows. He scans the closest flower bed, crossing his arms. "Tell you what," he starts, "You can go, but you've got to do something for me first."

"I really don't think—" Martin tries, but cuts off when Jon agrees. He turns to raise his eyebrows at his partner. "What, _really_?"

"It's only fair," Jon says tiredly. Martin grumbles, but takes a step back, clutching ever tighter to his bag. _Fair_. As if anything's fair anymore.

Jared chuckles but otherwise ignores the exchange. "You still do that talk-y thing? You know, drink up all the fear and spit it back out?"

"Essentially," Jon agrees, dry.

"Alright. Well, I'd like to hear about my garden."

Birdsong and suffering fills the air as Jon considers. Unsurprisingly, he agrees.

"And that's _my_ cue," Martin mutters.

"Don't go too far," Jon whispers, worry in his eyes. Martin holds back a sigh, because he _knows_ this. He's survived in these domains until now. Some creepy foliage isn't going to be his downfall. "And don't touch—"

"Don't touch anything, yes, I'm _aware_." He sighs, then offers Jon a strained smile. "I'll be fine. You… tell your story."

Jon smiles at him, one quick flash, and looks down at the nearest bloom. Martin beats a hasty retreat.

From this distance, Martin can't hear Jon speak. He can't hear whatever grotesque noises the plants or Jared make, though it's all too easy to imagine them whenever he glances that way. Jared looks different from the last time Martin saw him, more settled, more _meaty_ , but not different enough that Martin doesn't feel a familiar hatred at the sight of him.

If there was ever a monster Martin _really_ wanted dead, it's this one.

Jon doesn't remember, because he wasn't _there_ , but Martin was. When the Flesh attacked the Institute, led by this very avatar. Helen had helped them, opening a door under Jared's feet and trapping him in her corridors for months. But that hadn't done anything to stop the creatures Jared brought with him, and it took them months to recover. Even after Jon came back, after they'd had time to try to heal, they weren't completely better.

Not that Martin really cared, then. He'd been deep enough in Peter's employ by that point, and he'd purposely turned a blind eye to how broken everyone was.

But—it doesn't matter how much _Martin_ wants him dead and gone. That's not his decision. That's not something he has the right to push for, not when it both won't make a difference to how this world is run, and will only end up hurting Jon, tearing this relationship apart. Murder, surprisingly enough, is not the answer to all of life's troubles.

The sooner they leave this domain, the better.

Martin wraps his arms around himself as he waits, doing his best to ignore the noises of those victims beside him. Jon's rib is a solid presence in the pocket above his heart, and Martin wonders, for a moment, if it could be affected by this domain. This is what pulled it out of its previous home of tissue and blood, exposed it to the harsh air. Its twin lives within another, a foreigner in enemy lands.

Martin brought this rib with him under the faint excuse of bringing _all_ of Jon with him. But that's not true, is it? Part of him is still missing.

But while passage might be easily bought, bone is _Not_. Martin knows there is nothing of him that he would easily give to this land of Flesh. Certainly nothing of _Jon_ , since the goal is to _keep_ all of Jon's pieces. Trading one for another rather defeats the purpose.

Jared starts whistling again, the sound carrying on the gentle breeze. Martin looks up to see the avatar making his way further into the fields. Jon has turned away, and he's staring back at him, still bright-eyed and noticeably refreshed. He gestures Martin closer, stepping back onto the path.

"We're free to go then?" Martin asks redundantly. Jon hums.

"He wouldn't actually be able to stop us from going through this domain, but it would be… more difficult. This was easier."

"And you got to spew your horrors," Martin teases lightly, smiling when Jon grimaces.

"I really wish you wouldn't phrase it like that," he mutters. "But, yes, it did give me a chance to vent. I would have anyway, so this just… kills two birds with one stone, as it were."

"No chance to hit three and get your other rib back, then?" Martin says under his breath, because he knows the answer to that.

Jon huffs. "No, I'm afraid that's a lost cause."

Martin sighs dramatically. "Pity."

Jon laughs, bright against a backdrop of misery. He takes Martin's hand just to tug him closer, so they're walking almost on top of each other. "Let's just go," he says, exasperated.

"Lead the way."


End file.
